Superstitions.

Nigel Witherspoon was afraid of Thursdays. And Tuesdays. And, indeed, any day with an “s” in it. It wasn’t that anything particularly bad had ever happened to him on those days, just that they had that sort of feel about them, as if they were waiting for the right moment to leap out at him from behind a hedge and smartly deliver a lead-filled sock behind the ear. He had, he shuddered to recall, once stepped on a crack in the pavement on a Tuesday and suffered a particularly nasty paper cut that very afternoon. Coincidence? Perhaps. Nigel Witherspoon did not believe in coincidences. Nigel believed in omens, portents, a multitude of other superstitions and the scrupulous avoidance of cats.

Nigel had a carefully calibrated system to avoid certain doom. It involved never walking under ladders (naturally), never touching doorknobs with his bare hands, seven rabbit’s feet, a four-leaf clover, and an emergency horseshoe. There were also the chants, the little gestures, and the meticulously timed hops he did whenever crossing a threshold to ensure that no malevolent spirits attached themselves to his heels. It was, all in all, for Nigel, a full-time job.

One might think, then, that Nigel Witherspoon’s decision to leave his small, rigorously omen-compliant cottage in Lower Prattlewick to embark on a journey to visit his aunt in Upper Greater Shamblebury was an unlikely one. But he’d received a letter. The letter included the words “or else”, underlined twice, which was the traditional Family Witherspoon method of turning polite requests into a command. He’d debated whether the ominous nature of the request outweighed the dangers of travel. But in the end, Nigel concluded that the only thing worse than tempting fate was angered an aunt. In particular, Aunt Hortense, whose reputation for vitriol, liberally sprinkled over those who displeased her, was legendary.

And so, festooned with every conceivable charm and a suitcase filled with additional protective talisman, Nigel Witherspoon stepped out into the world.

He arrived at Aunt Hortense’s house, His aunt stood stiffly on the doorstep, arms folded, looking grim.

“You took your time,” she said. “He’s still out there.”

Nigel blinked. “Who is?”

Aunt Hortense simply turned and pointed towards the garden. There, between the gnarled apple tree and the compost heap, stood a yurt-like shelter. Next to it sat a man, or, at least some species of unpleasant-looking hominid, surrounded by neat rows of wooden clothes pegs, all identical and gleaming in the weak sunlight.

“Who,” Nigel repeated, “is that?”

“He calls himself Tavish Peg,” Aunt Hortense said flatly. “He arrived a week and three days ago, knocked on my door, and asked if I’d like to buy some pegs. I politely declined his kind offer by bashing him smartly about the head with my yard-brush, at which point he’s promptly taken up residence in my garden in that damned tent affair. He’s chopped up all my prize hydrangea bushes to make more pegs. And just because of some minor broom-work on my part, he’s gone and cursed the entire property.”

Nigel turned slowly to look at his aunt. “Cursed?”

She exhaled sharply. “Well, yes… Obviously. It’s what they do. Peg sellers. Notorious for it. I tried enlisting the vicar to evict him. Hopelessly vapid, chinless barm-pot that he was… He fell down the well. Then I got the local constable to come by. Fat lot of good that was. Turned up ten days late, took one look, called for back-up. I made him tea. He tasered old Mr Scrope next door for trimming his parsley too loudly and then left. Finally, I attempted to run him off myself. My shoes caught fire.”

Nigel peered at her footwear. “They seem fine now.”

“They aren’t,” she said darkly. “These are my best dancing clogs. Strictly weddings and funerals only.”

Nigel shuddered. “And you expect me to deal with this?”

Aunt Hortense folded her arms tighter. “You’re the family superstition czar. Surely you’ve prepared for something like this?”

Nigel had prepared for spectral visitations, demonic infestations, and infestations of ghouls, vampire bats, unicorns, vitriolic aunts, sundry evangelical types, and four different kinds of rodent. He had not, however, accounted for itinerant salespersons in the laundry accessories trade. But he was here now, and Aunt Hortense was giving him the look that suggested he would not be in receipt of either tea or cake until the matter was settled.

Taking a deep breath, Nigel squared his shoulders and strode, well, inched, crablike, towards Tavish Peg. The man’s eyes were eerily blue, and his hands were calloused from years of peg-related labour.

“Afternoon,” said Tavish pleasantly. “Can I interest you in some fine, handcrafted pegs?”

Nigel swallowed. “No, thank you.”

Tavish smiled knowingly. “Ah, but look at the craftsmanship. Bits of random stick fastened with strips of recycled fizzy drink cans. Where else would you find craftsmanship like this? They’re not just any old pegs, they’re destiny, my friend. Each peg holds a story. Each peg, a life unspooled. Take one, and you’ll see.”

Nigel hesitated… There was something. Something in Tavish’s gaze, something old and knowing, and before he realised what he was doing, he reached out and took a single wooden peg.

Nigel felt it. He got a splinter in his finger from one of the two whittled sticks. He cut his thumb on the viciously sharp strip of tin wound around one end holding the ‘peg’ together. It was crudely made. He doubted if it would work as a clothes peg more than once, and even then, not without some form of moderately alarming, wound-induced blood seepage. But…

…And something shifted. A great wind seemed to roar, even though the air was still. The world tilted. His mind filled with visions. Visions of endless, open roads, of strange towns, of the scent of freshly whittled wood. He saw himself, an adventurer, travelling from place to place, selling pegs to those in need.

And he wanted it. He wanted it so much…

With a strange certainty, he turned to Aunt Hortense. “Aunty,” he said, his voice reverent. “This is it, Aunty. The pegs… the road… the pegs are calling to me…”

Aunt Hortense paled. “Oh, no, you don’t, young Nigel. You behave yourself. Don’t be so daft. Don’t you even think for one moment that you get to go off on some peg-related quest.” she said crossly. “You’re as bad as your father.”

But it was too late. The peg was in Nigel’s palm, warm and splintery, whispering of adventure. He turned back to Tavish, eyes shining. “How do I begin?”

Tavish grinned. “Take your first step, lad. The road is yours.”

And just like that, Nigel Witherspoon, lifelong avoider of fate, doom, and misadventure, picked up a satchel full of pegs, rolled up the yurt-thing, and hung it over his shoulder. He stepped out of the garden and was never seen in Lower Prattlewick again. Neither was Tavish.

Aunt Hortense sighed, turned on her heel, and went inside. “Nephews,” she sighed, shrugging her bony shoulders. “What’s the point of them?”